


The Stormy Present

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Crossover, F/M, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kara's a pilot, and Dean hates flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stormy Present

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Angelgazing, to Snacky and Majrgenrl8 for betaing at lightning speed, and to Luzdeestrellas for going above and beyond. Written for [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html).

She stumbles into their camp one night, right over the salt line (human, Dean thinks, though that doesn't mean he doesn't hand her the canteen full of holy water first, just in case), weird gun in her hand and blood spattered all over her body. He's pretty sure from the way she's standing that most of it isn't hers.

She takes a long drink and doesn't hiss or burn, and then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood and dirt across her face. "What the frak was that?" she says. She speaks with an odd accent Dean can't quite place, but then, he doesn't try real hard.

"Depends," he answers, already on his feet, shotgun at the ready. The amount of gore she's wearing, he knows it's not a ghost. "What color eyes did it have?"

"You know, I didn't really have a chance to check, what with it trying to kill me and all." She points her gun at him. "How do I know you're not more of the same?"

"We haven't tried to kill you," Sam says, a solid presence at Dean's back. He sounds calm, reasonable--almost gentle--and Dean relaxes just a little. If Sam's not freaked, he doesn't need to be, either.

She starts, like she didn't see Sam there, which is par for the course these days. People only see what he wants them to, when he wants them to. Except for Dean, who can always see him, bright like a match lit in the darkness.

"Yet." Her eyes are wild, and though her gun hand is steady, she looks spooked, and spooked people are trigger-happy people. Dean edges more fully in front of Sam.

"Yet," Dean agrees with a grin. "Though most of the things we kill couldn't have crossed that salt line, so you're probably safer with us." He doesn't promise _safe_\--nobody can, not anymore. Not that there was ever such a thing in the first place.

"It looked human," she says after the silence stretches uncomfortably, "until it got close. Then it had a mouthful of these weird, sharp teeth."

"Great," Dean mutters. "I fucking hate vamps." He doesn't mention that salt's not going to keep vampires out, but he knows Sam's thinking the same thing. They've got the Colt, and there's certainly enough scrap metal littering the landscape to make more bullets, but it requires time and patience and a safe place to stop for a few days, so they're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

"Vamps?"

"Vampires," Sam says. "Bloodsuckers."

"Bitey McBiterson and the fang gang," Dean says. Sam huffs in annoyance, and Dean feels a warm glow of pleasure that he can still get that reaction, even after all these years, and everything that's changed.

"They're not human, not anymore," Sam continues. "They need blood and they'll kill to get it."

"And they're not like those emo bastards in Anne Rice's books, either," Dean says. "So don't be taken in by any brooding or moping or black eyeliner."

"What the frak?" She shakes her head like she can't believe what she's hearing. "Is this some kind of sick _joke_?"

"No joke, sweetheart. Vampires and demons are real. So are ghosts and werewolves and other beasties that go bump in the night." He's a little tired of giving that speech, especially now, when it's not a secret anymore, and that bleeds through in his delivery. He glances at Sam, but doesn't lower the shotgun until Sam gives him a short nod, confirming his initial impression that she's not a threat. Well, not a supernatural one, anyway.

"You guys are crazy."

"Maybe." Dean shrugs, grins. "We get that a lot. But we're still alive."

"For now," she says.

"Yeah." Dean shrugs again. "What else is there?"

Her face splits into a feral grin Dean recognizes as matching his own, and lowers her weapon. "I'll drink to that."

"Not while there are vampires lurking," Sam says, and the blade of his machete gleams in the moonlight. "You think they followed you?"

"I shot all three of them in the head," she answers, "so, no, not really."

Dean thinks he might fall a little bit in love with her in that moment.

He looks at Sam, who looks thoughtful. "It's probably not enough to kill them," Sam says finally, "but I bet you put a crimp in their style." He smiles, then, and the girl smiles back, wide and a little goofy, because Sam's smile has always been contagious.

"You got a name?" Dean asks.

"Kara," she answers, holding out one bloodstained hand. "Kara Thrace."

*

She flinches when Sam says his name, and Dean wonders, for just a second, hand already on the butt of his gun, until she says, "My husband's name--" Her voice breaks and she turns it into a hollow laugh. She shakes her head. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry," Sam says.

She shrugs, and doesn't bring it up again. She doesn't stumble over Sam's name, either, not after that first half-second of surprise.

She shows no hint of recognition at all when Dean introduces himself, and he's okay with that.

*

The third day she's with them, she squints into the overcast, one hand shielding her eyes, and says, "Don't you guys have any anti-radiation meds?"

"It wasn't that kind of apocalypse," Sam says. His voice is matter-of-fact, and Kara probably doesn't notice, because she doesn't know him the way Dean does--nobody knows him the way Dean does--but his jaw tightens and his chin comes up defiantly, like he's getting ready to argue. It's not a fight Dean ever wants to have again; he didn't want to have it the first time (the only time), and he's learned not to bring the subject up. He's too grateful to be out of hell, and too ashamed about feeling that way, to make an issue of it.

"Oh," she says after the silence has stretched too long, broken only by the rush of wind through the narrow valley they spent the night in.

She doesn't ask again.

*

Dean can tell Kara is military by the way she squares her shoulders when she fires a gun, the way she responds under pressure, and the way she moves when they snap orders at her, though she takes a swing at him the first time he tells her that she has to do what they say or they'll leave her behind.

She packs quite a punch. He forces himself not to punch back, and rubs his bruised jaw.

"What is your fucking problem?"

She grins at him, wide and defiant. "How much time you got?"

Dean laughs, partly in disbelief, partly in recognition. It hurts, and he can taste blood on his tongue from where she split his lip. "Still, you do what Sam and I say, or we'll ditch your ass like third-period French."

"Okay," she says, after a long moment, and Dean feels some of the tension leave his body, feels Sam relax behind him, too.

Leaving her alone out here is a death sentence, and they all know it. He just needs to make sure taking her along doesn't end the same way.

"You two know more about this monster stuff than I do, so okay." She's obviously not happy about it, but happiness isn't high up on their list of priorities these days, or maybe it's just that it's been redefined.

She packs her kit quickly--she doesn't have much; nobody does--shaking her head and muttering, "_Monsters_. Like the frakking _skinjobs_ weren't scary enough."

Dean wonders if skinjob is just a different name for shapeshifter, but he hasn't had an opportunity yet to ask.

"You know, you're taking this whole apocalypse thing pretty well," he says, hands shoved in his pockets, the closest thing to an apology she's going to get.

She gives a small huff of bitter laughter. "It's not my first time at the big dance."

He's not sure how to take that, so he scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. They've got a harpy to kill.

*

She doesn't talk much, goes quiet and helps them clean the weapons when they hole up for the night. Her hands are sure and steady, though sometimes they linger, long fingers stained with oil or solvent or dirt, stroking along the smooth barrel of a shotgun or a forty-five. They don't let her handle the Colt.

Sometimes she looks like she's going to say something; once or twice she gets a nostalgic look on her face--usually after they've killed something and are all riding high on adrenaline--but she shakes her head and says, "Never mind."

They don't push for her story, and she doesn't ask them for theirs, and Dean thinks they're all better off that way. Everybody thinks they know what happened, and everybody's wrong. It's not a story Dean's willing to share, though, so he never bothers to correct them.

She stares at the sky sometimes, the low gray-white overcast that covers the world now, or at least the corner of it they're living in, and Dean can see longing in her face. He'd like to see the sun, too, and the moon and the stars, but he knows wishing's never done anyone any good.

"I'm a pilot," she says one night, propped up on her elbows and staring up at the starless sky. "Or I was, anyway."

Sam hums sympathetically, and Dean says, "I hate flying."

Kara laughs, and goes back to staring at the sky.

Her long stretches of silence seem friendlier after that.

*

Even though it's almost always cold, they usually sleep out in the open--in the bed of a truck if they have one, or on the ground if they don't. When it rains, they pitch the tent, and the addition of a third person has made it an even tighter fit. On the upside, Dean thinks, it's warmer.

Tonight, they've got the tent pitched in the flatbed, rain pattering against the canvas, and one of the flashlights to see their cards by.

Sam says, "Kara, do you have any jacks?"

Kara answers, "Go fish!" with the kind of smug grin that reminds Dean of Sam at five years old. Of Sam now, to be truthful. Sometimes, Dean looks at him and wonders where that little boy went, but sometimes, Sam scowls or pouts exactly the way he did then, and Dean has to breathe through a tight ache in his chest.

Sam sighs like a broken man and pulls a card off the top of the deck. He frowns and tucks it into his hand.

"My turn," Kara says, still grinning. "Dean, do you have any fours?"

Dean grunts and hands over the four of diamonds. He misses their old deck, the one where the ace of spades was missing two corners and the three of hearts came from an entirely different deck, and someone (Sam) had poked a hole in the eight of diamonds after he'd lost an epic game of rummy, and ended up with a week's worth of extra chores. Good times.

"You remember that poker tournament in Eureka?"

"The one we snuck into because you were underage?" Sam says. "I remember we had extra PT for a month when Dad found out."

"But the money was totally worth it, Sammy." He'd bought himself a new walkman, and Sam new sneakers and a denim jacket with his winnings, spent before Dad could confiscate them.

Sam nods and smiles in agreeable nostalgia. "Yeah, okay. That was a cool jacket."

"Poker?" Kara asks. "I've never played. Do you have any nines?"

"Since you're already kicking our asses at Go Fish," Dean says, handing over the nine of clubs, "I'm not sure we should teach you how."

Kara lays down four nines and laughs.

*

They've got about one day of gas left in the truck. Dean doesn't even bother differentiating anymore--it's always just the truck when they have one. They've driven and abandoned so many cars since the world ended, and the only one that matters is sitting safely under a tarp at Bobby's.

There's nothing around to hotwire when the gas finally does run out, so they split their stuff and shoulder their packs. Kara doesn't complain, just adds some of their stuff to the duffel she's already carrying, and slings it onto her back.

A few days later, she finds an old jeep parked in a garage. It still has nearly a full tank of gas, and there are no corpses stinking up the interior--not that they'd let that stop them, though they always give the bodies a fiery send-off when that happens.

"I found it, I drive it," she says, grinning.

Sam laughs, loud and genuine, a sound Dean doesn't get to hear often enough nowadays. "She's got you there," he says, slapping Dean's shoulder.

For making Sam laugh, Dean decides he can let it go. But not that far. "I call shotgun," he says, smirking as Sam grumbles and folds himself into the backseat of the jeep.

Kara drives like she punches, fast and hard, pedal to the metal the whole time she's behind the wheel, like the thing will take flight if she pushes hard enough. After half an hour, Dean's head is aching--the road is full of potholes and the jeep's suspension is fucked and there's nothing he can do about any of it--and she starts singing really loud and slightly off-key in some foreign language that might be Greek.

Dean glances back at Sam, who looks all disgruntled until he sees the annoyed expression on Dean's face, and then he laughs again and smacks the back of Dean's head. "Driver picks the music," he says before Dean can say anything.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters. "But I'm driving after the next rest stop."

Kara gives him another one of those wide goofy smiles, and she keeps making Sam laugh, so Dean figures he can live with the headache.

*

Kara is one of the least girly girls Dean's ever met. She keeps her nails short and hacks off her ponytail with Dean's favorite knife when the elastic she's using to tie it finally snaps.

"Burn it," Sam tells her, pointing the knife he's sharpening at the small fire they've lit. They don't have a fire every night, though it's always fucking cold enough to need it, but Sam can usually tell when it's safe, when there's nothing close enough to bother them.

She looks like she's going to question--she questions everything they tell her, and if Dean hadn't grown up with Sam, who asked _even more_ questions (still does), he'd probably have a lot less patience for it than he does (and he doesn't have much)--so Dean says, "It can be used against you in various spells and rituals. They already have a huge advantage. Why give them another one?"

She doesn't ask who they are. She doesn't have to. In the weeks since she stumbled into their camp, she's seen vampires, ghosts, demons, even a chupacabra once. And something Dean thinks might have been a black dog, but Sam swears was a coyote. They shot it anyway, two silver rounds to the heart, and then set the carcass on fire.

Can't be too careful these days.

Kara gathers the hank of hair and tosses it into the fire, wrinkling her nose at the smell. What's left hangs in pale, jagged points at her jaw line. Dean reaches out, brushes the uneven line of it with the backs of his fingers.

He can see her throat work as she swallows, surprised by the touch. The firelight paints her face in light and shadow, and once he's touched her, he can't seem to stop.

Sam shakes his head, teeth flashing white in the darkness as he grins and then disappears into the tent, zipping it up behind him. Dean wonders if he knew, if that's why he'd set the tent up in the first place.

Kara turns, leans into the palm of Dean's hand, her skin cool and smooth against his. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and Dean can hear it shuddering inside of her, like the wings of a bird trying to escape.

They both move at the same time, her mouth opening under his, her tongue moving against his, tasting of burnt coffee and smoke and desperation. He cups her face, holds her there for a long time, just kissing, learning the taste and texture of her mouth, the rhythm of her breath, which hitches in a way that makes him stop for a second, run his lips over the arch of her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, searching for the hot salt taste of tears that aren't there.

"Hey," she says, wrapping callused fingers around his wrist and holding him close, her breath a warm puff of air against his lips.

"Yeah," he answers, pushing her back against the blanket and fitting himself into the V between her legs.

It's too cold and too dangerous to strip completely, but it's enough to slide his hands up under her shirt, cup the firm weight of her breasts in his hand, swallow her gasps when he thumbs the hard nipples.

She runs her hands through his hair, short nails scraping over his scalp, along the nape of his neck, making him shiver in her arms. He sucks in a surprised breath when her hands sweep down over his belly, long fingers easily undoing his fly, reaching in to wrap around his cock.

She laughs softly as she strokes him, and he leans and licks the taste of it from her mouth, his hands working at the waist of her jeans, shoving them down so he can curl his fingers into the slick heat between her legs. She kicks one ankle free of her jeans and arches up against him, her whole body an open invitation he's only too happy to take. He slides his hand up her leg, her skin soft and warm, dusted with short stubble that bristles against his palm, and wraps it around his hip; with his other hand, he feels around for the condom in his pocket. He doesn't have many left, has a vague recollection of that Seinfeld episode where Elaine was running out of sponges.

He slides into the slick heat of her cunt, lets out a low growl of pleasure when she tightens around him.

Kara is definitely sponge-worthy.

"So good," he whispers against her neck, sucking bruises onto the soft, pale skin there. "So fucking hot."

"You bet your ass I am," she answers, laughing breathlessly. She shifts her hips up and tips her head back to give him a better angle, better access.

He keeps up a steady rhythm, savoring the heady rise of heat in his veins, the sweet hot tension that makes it hard to breathe, makes it easy to forget how fucked up everything is and just pay attention to the warmth of the woman beneath him. His fingers circle over her clit, his dick sliding in and out of her cunt, and it's too dark to see, but he closes his eyes and imagines it, and his hips jerk hard against hers. Her body tenses and arches up against him, and she comes with a moan he muffles with his mouth. He's not far behind, white light sparking behind his eyelids and white heat licking down his spine as he loses himself inside her.

He collapses on top of her with a grunt, burying his face in the warm, sweaty curve of her neck. She wraps her arms around him for one brief second, tight enough to count as a hug, before she shoves him off like it never happened. Her mouth is still curved in a smile, but her eyes are dark and glassy in the dying firelight.

She doesn't say his name, and he wonders if the only reason she chose him is because his name isn't Sam.

She pulls her pants back on while he buries the condom under a layer of salt, and rolls over onto her side, facing away from the fire. He lies next to her, back to back, and pulls the other half of the blanket over them.

He wakes up curled around her, and when she opens her mouth to give him shit, he just says, "I didn't want you to freeze to death," and walks away, her surprised laughter following him, loud and bright on the wind.

*

Dean decides he's okay with having Kara around. She's good in a fight, she laughs at his jokes, and he's getting laid pretty regularly, so he can't really complain. He loses track of how long she's been with them, though he thinks it's been a while now. He knows Sam marks the days in his hunting journal--he's always been kind of anal about shit like that--but when every day looks exactly the same except for the type of thing that's trying to kill them, Dean doesn't really see the point. He still keeps his own notes, because they're useful and can help other people, but he can't tell if it's Tuesday or Thursday or Christmas or Easter.

The only time it matters is when they find a pocket of civilization, hanging on after the end of the world. There are survivors--people are holed up in bomb shelters in school basements, bus stations and hospitals--and Sam and Dean always stop and stay for a few days each time they find another settlement, teaching what they know: salt circles on the floor and binding circles on the ceilings, and half a dozen different exorcism rituals they've found effective when the basic _Rituale Romanum_ doesn't work.

Since Kara's joined them, they've found two groups they didn't know about before, and visited a third that's on the way back to Bobby's. Each time, she's eyed the people with wary hope on her face, and Dean wonders who she's looking for. She hasn't found them yet, and each time, she shakes her head and packs her bag when Dean tells her she doesn't have to leave with them in the morning.

"Someone's gotta help Sam keep you out of trouble," she says around the cigar in her mouth. He doesn't know where she found it, and he thinks it's kind of gross and kind of hot at the same time. When he kisses her, she tastes of tobacco and beer.

This group has taken over a nursing home, so Dean and Kara actually get to fuck in a bed for once. They can take all their clothes off and take their time. Dean's almost forgotten what that's like, how good it can be, until he's got Kara spread out beneath him, winter-pale and laughing, on sheets that are soft and thin from being washed too often.

He runs his fingers along the huge tattoo on her arm, rubs his thumb on the bare skin where the circle is incomplete. "You run out of cash before it was finished?"

She shakes her head. "After Sam and I got married, we didn't exactly have money for rings." He knows there's more to it than that, but he doesn't push. She shrugs. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." She reaches up, touches the tattoo on his chest. The drag of her fingertip over the scar bisecting it makes him shiver. "You?"

"Protects against demonic possession." Sam had re-inked it himself once the wounds on Dean's chest had healed and he was safely back in his own body. He breathes out a soft laugh. "Sam's got one too."

He kisses her so he doesn't have to say anything else, wet and sloppy, all thrusting tongue and sucking lips. She curls her tongue around his, then slides it into his mouth, hot and rough against his palate. They make out until their mouths are swollen with it, red and wet, and Dean thinks he could do this forever, and fuck the fucked up world outside.

He pulls back, starts kissing his way down her body, liking the way she shivers and arches at the touch of his lips and tongue. He spends some time on her tits, making her moan and pull his hair, every reaction of hers setting off a reaction in him, his dick hard and aching for the tight heat of her cunt. But first he wants to taste her, hasn't had a chance yet to eat her out, and it's been tormenting him.

He moves down the bed, trailing kisses along her belly. He licks at the scars on her abdomen and she makes a soft choking sound that could be a sob. He looks up and her head is tipped back, eyes closed, lower lip caught between her teeth. No tears, though, so he keeps going, lets her push him down until he's where he wants to be. He noses at the wet curls between her thighs, sucks a kiss at the pulse point in the crease where her leg joins her body, then licks his way down, her skin salt-slick and warm under his tongue. She shivers again, bites out a sharp _frak me_ that he takes as an order, diving in with fingers, lips and tongue. She writhes beneath him, yanking on his hair and crying out hoarsely when he finally gets her off, her whole body arching and shaking with it.

He slides inside while her cunt is still clenching tight, the hot, wet flex of it around his dick the closest thing to rapture that exists. She tangles her legs with his, rolls them over so she's on top, and stretches his arms above his head, her hands wrapped around his wrists. She rides him hard enough to make the bed squeak in protest, metal frame banging against the wall with every thrust of her hips. She leans forward to stare down into his eyes, and he holds her gaze as long as he can, surprised at the warmth welling up in his chest that has nothing to do with the way she's fucking him into the mattress. She lets his wrists go to clutch tightly at his shoulders, shifting her hips and arching her back.

He reaches up to squeeze one bouncing breast, flick the nipple with his thumb. "Fuck, Kara," he says, and she licks whatever else he was going to say off his tongue like she knows, even though he doesn't even know. His hands tighten on her hips as he slams up into her, need and pleasure like lightning in his veins, and his eyes screw shut as he comes, painting the insides of his eyelids bright white like a phosphorus bomb.

"Dean," she says against his lips, slowing down as she rides out his orgasm. She takes his hand and brings it to where their bodies are joined. His fingers circle her clit, the way she likes, and she comes with a low moan, her mouth against his neck, moving in words he can't understand. He thinks she says his name again, but he won't hold her to it. This time, she slumps down on top of him and lets him hold her for a little bit before she rolls away.

They lie next to each other, sweaty and sated, and they fall asleep tangled up on the soft sheets.

Dean wakes up warm and content, and, not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like to give up the road, and stay. He forces himself to get up. Kara shifts, squints at him through sleep-crusted eyes, and he says, "Gotta take a piss." She nods and goes back to sleep, and Dean starts packing up their stuff.

*

She takes a handful of cigars with her when they go, though Dean doesn't know what she traded for them.

Sam says, "You know you can't smoke those when we're on the road, right?"

"Why not?"

"Can smell that shit for miles, for one," Dean says, settling behind the wheel of this week's model, a fucking hybrid that puts a smug look on Sam's face. Like the environment's not totally fucked anyway, and where the hell are they supposed to recharge it? Electricity's not exactly flowing like water these days. Hell, water's not even flowing like water in some places. "It's not like they don't already know we're out there, but we don't wanna give 'em even more of a heads up, you know?"

"Also, tobacco can be used in rituals to summon loas," Sam says, "and we really don't need the company."

"Freak," Dean mutters affectionately and Sam grins.

"Loas?" she asks, climbing into the backseat without complaining for once.

Sam spends the next hour turned sideways in his seat, explaining vodoun to Kara, and Dean lets the familiar sound of his voice wash away the lingering vestiges of his wish to curl up in bed and give up the fight.

*

It's late afternoon when they pull into Bobby's yard. His dogs bark like crazy, and Dean is glad to see they're all still alive--the first winter, Bobby'd had to put the old dogs down because he couldn't feed them in addition to all the survivors who kept showing up on his doorstep. (Dean tries to forget that those people probably _ate_ the poor dogs. Of all the crappy things he's seen and done in his life, that one stands out, because people shouldn't have to _eat_ their _pets_. Kind of makes him glad they never had one.)

Dean happily takes the holy water spiked drink from Bobby. "I don't know what it's made of," he says after the alcohol kicks him in the chest, "but I think I like it."

Bobby laughs and pulls him into a one-armed hug, and then does the same with Sam. Kara hangs back, face blank, shoulders squared, and arms folded behind her in parade rest.

Bobby gives her the once-over. "And you are?"

"Kara Thrace," she says, and there's a snap to her voice that makes Dean think she's biting back a _sir_ and a salute.

"The boys been treating you right?" Bobby asks, giving Dean a sly look.

She grins. "Yes, sir."

"All right, then. You can go on up to the house and make yourself at home. Ask for Ellen. She'll get you settled in."

She looks at Dean, startled, and Dean says, "Actually, she's, uh, I was gonna take her to see the car."

Bobby's eyebrows go up underneath his hat in surprise. "Like that, is it?"

Dean shrugs. Most of the people they've brought to Bobby's have stayed. He knows at some point, Kara's going to stay somewhere (if she doesn't end up dead first) and he and Sam are going to leave. That's just how it works, how it's always worked, and even the fucking end of the world hasn't changed it.

He's never taken any of them to see the car, though.

"I'll make sure there's some food for you in the kitchen," Bobby says. "Don't stay out here too long. It's looking to rain."

Dean claps him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby."

Sam hesitates for a second, and Dean jerks his head in the direction of the garage: Don't be a dumbass. The car is his home, too. Sam nods once in response, Okay, and falls into step with them.

Dean tells himself the weird flutter in his belly is just anticipation, but he kind of really wants Kara to like his car. It's dumb--she's a freaking fighter pilot, so he's pretty sure the glory of the Impala won't be lost on her, and it's not like she's not already letting him fuck her six ways from Sunday--but the car's always been a member of the family--and okay, this is probably even dumber--but he kind of wants the car to like her back. He knows Sam would mock him for weeks if he knew, and he knows he'd probably deserve it, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it.

He pushes up the garage door, flicks on the light--Bobby's got generators hooked up, and they have power for a few hours every day--and pulls the blue tarp off his baby.

She looks gorgeous and lonely, there in Bobby's garage, like a beautiful woman sitting alone at a bar, and Dean wishes he could take her back out on the road--she's saved their lives more times than he can count, and is the closest thing to home he and Sam have--but gas is too scarce and the roads are too fucked up now to take the chance.

"Pretty," Kara says, laying a hand on the polished black steel of the hood.

"They don't make 'em like my baby anymore," Dean says, patting the hood fondly, proudly. "Well, before, when they were still making shit like cars. She's probably the last of her kind now."

Sam runs a hand over the cool metal, lingering at the passenger side door, one hand splayed out on the roof, eyes closed as if he's praying. When he opens them, he says, "I'm gonna go see what Ellen's got cooking. I can't promise to save you anything if you take too long." He bumps Dean's shoulder on his way past, and Dean grins.

"Let me show you the inside," Dean says to Kara once Sam is gone, voice pitched low and seductive, though he can't keep the undercurrent of laughter out of it.

The look she gives him is both skeptical and amused. He opens the back door on the driver's side and gets in, and pulls her in after him.

*

Half an hour later, breathless and sweaty and stinking of sex, they stumble into the kitchen. Ellen pulls Dean into a tight hug, and he buries his face in her hair, breathing her in. He keeps one arm around Ellen's waist and reaches out to pull Kara close with his other hand.

"Ellen, this is--"

"Starbuck?" A guy almost as tall as Sam is standing at the sink, holding a little dark-haired girl in his arms.

Kara stills, though Dean can feel her pulse beating wildly under his fingertips. "Helo? Oh my gods." She moves then, and Dean lets her go, watching closely as she throws herself at Helo, face lit up with joyful disbelief. She reaches up and stops just short of touching the little girl's curly hair. "Hera?"

"Yeah." Helo envelopes Kara in a tight one-armed hug, presses his face to her hair, and Dean can see he's as overwhelmed as Kara is.

"And Athena?"

"She's here, too." Helo shifts, wraps an arm around Kara's shoulders and holds onto her even after she's pulled back from the hug.

"Lee?" The hope in her voice makes Dean's throat tight.

"I--" Helo shakes his head. "I don't know. There was so much confusion. The only one we've seen since is the Three, D'Anna."

"Frakking toasters."

"Hey, this worked out just as badly for them as it did for us," Helo says, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She slaps his hand away, but it's gentle, teasing.

Ellen slips her arm through Dean's. "We'll let you catch up," she says.

Kara catches his eye and gives him a half-smile as Ellen leads him away.

*

Sam's saved him a plate of cheese macaroni and a beer, and Dean sits at the small desk and eats quietly, listening as Ellen tells them that Singer Salvage has claimed more land and added more people since the last time they were there, and that she and Bobby have been training them all.

"You can stay, you know," she says. "I know you won't," she continues before Dean can respond, "but you could."

She gets up, squeezes Dean's shoulder, and ruffles Sam's hair before leaving them alone in the room that's been theirs since the first time Dad brought them to Bobby's. Dean barely remembers it, and Sam was still in diapers.

Dean runs a hand over his face, up through his hair, suddenly exhausted. He looks at Sam, who's nursing his bottle of beer. Sam shrugs one shoulder, shakes his head.

Dean understands. He feels the same way.

He pushes his plate away, takes the bottle of beer, and lies down on the twin bed that's always been his.

"How long does beer stay good, do you think?" he asks, smearing his thumb through the condensation running down the side of the brown bottle.

"Not more than a year, I think."

"Huh. This doesn't taste bad at all." He takes another sip, and maybe it's a little flat, but it's still cool enough to be refreshing. "I've drunk worse."

Sam laughs, the sound easing the tightness in Dean's chest. "I know. I was there for the prairie fire incident and its aftermath."

"Hey, you're the one who mixed Jaegermeister and gin that time, so I don't think you've got a leg to stand on. Didn't you learn anything in college?"

"Beer before liquor, never sicker; liquor before beer, never fear," Sam quotes, and Dean says it right along with him.

"Taught you that before you left, dumbass," Dean says, not bothering to disguise the tenderness in his voice for once.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling and taking one last sip of beer. "You were a real shining example of humanity, Professor."

Dean flicks condensation in Sam's direction, and Sam laughs.

*

The beer is long finished and the fake orange cheese has congealed on the plate when Dean gets up. The storm Bobby predicted has been and gone, even the fine misty aftermath dissipating after a couple of hours.

Sam's passed out on his bed, drooling into his pillow, relaxed in a way he never is anymore-- can't be, not even here, to tell the truth, but they both do it, still act like they believe Bobby can protect them, and everyone else. Maybe that's the same thing as actually believing it. Dean doesn't know.

He goes out to see the car, finds Kara lying on the hood of one of the junkers that hasn't been completely dismantled yet, a plaid blanket spread out beneath her to ward off the chill, and a bottle of Bobby's homemade hooch in her hand to make sure it stays away.

"Cop a squat," she says, patting the spot beside her.

Dean settles next to her, takes the bottle when she offers it, savoring the burn of alcohol in his chest and in his belly.

The blanket smells like damp earth and engine grease, familiar and comforting. The storm's fierce wind has shredded the cloud cover for the first time in months. Pinpricks of light are visible through the wisps of clouds, and Kara points out the constellations she recognizes--Virgo, Gemini, Cancer--though the names she gives them are all slightly off.

"Orion is my favorite," he says.

She laughs. "The hunter. Of course."

Dean shrugs. He's never claimed not to be obvious. The people who know him best see through it, as hard as he tries not to let them.

"He was in love with Artemis."

Dean nods; he remembers his father's lessons on astronomy and astrology, and the mythology behind it all; sometimes he likes to surprise Sam with the fact that he knows this stuff, even though most of the time, he pretends he doesn't.

"He loved her and she killed him." It's a whisper, low and pained.

Dean shrugs again. "It's just a story."

"Is it?"

He takes another drink, not sure how to answer that, not after all the supposedly mythological creatures he's seen in the deadly flesh, all the stories he's seen play out in real life like they'd been scripted by prophets a thousand years ago.

"Sometimes," she says, taking the bottle from him and drinking, "it doesn't matter what you do, you always end up in the same place."

Dean shakes his head. "Bullshit. There's always a choice."

"Is there?"

He rolls his eyes, holds his hand out for the bottle. "Don't be an idiot. Sometimes the choices really suck, but you always have them." He thinks about everything that's happened, all the choices he's made, that Sam's made, and refuses to admit any of it was inevitable, that they don't bear any responsibility for the whole damn mess, because it was always going to happen anyway. As much as he wishes that were true, he can't believe it.

"You don't believe in destiny." She laughs and it sounds like she's crying.

He sneaks a look to make sure she isn't. "I think destiny is a cranky old bastard in need of a good ass-kicking."

She laughs again, more genuine this time. "And you're just the guy to do it."

"Maybe." He grins, turns the conversation. "Starbuck, huh? You a big fan of coffee?"

"It's--It was my callsign. Helo and I--I've known him a long time." She's talking slow, but not because of the alcohol. He can hear all the things she's leaving out. "He's my best friend. We were in the academy together, saw a lot of action together."

"I think I wanted to be an astronaut for a little while when I was a kid. Well, before I wanted to be a fireman."

"I thought you hated to fly."

"I do." He shudders dramatically, but the smile he gets back is small and sad.

"It's--You know how you feel when you're driving your car, your Impala? That's what flying is like for me."

He thinks about freedom, about aiming for the horizon with Sam at his side, and his girl growling in time to the beat. "Oh."

"Yeah." She takes another drink. "I missed him. Missed everyone. My old life. You think you've lost everything, and you make a life out of what's left, and then you lose that, too." She shakes her head. "You keep doing it, but every time, you start with nothing, and when you've finally got something, it ends. It always ends too soon."

He doesn't say anything for a while. The only person he's ever known how to comfort is Sam, and only because he's been doing it his whole life.

"You don't have to feel guilty about wanting to stay," he finally says. He doesn't look at her. They haven't made any promises. He's never gotten the impression she wanted him to. "Or about not wanting to stay. But I think you want to, and that bothers you."

"You're leaving."

He scrubs a hand across his face, slight tingling in his lips reminding him he's well on his way to being drunk. "Not tomorrow, but in a couple days, yeah." He doesn't call her on not answering.

"You don't have to," she says. "You don't have to leave. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I do." He sighs. This is a familiar conversation, and one that never gets any easier. "This is my life," he says, gesturing to encompass everything--the road and the hunt, the guilt he feels about what happened. "It doesn't have to be yours."

"I thought you didn't believe in destiny."

"Fuck destiny, man. Destiny is bullshit." He takes another drink. "This is about responsibility. I _have_ to do this."

"You can't save the world, Dean."

He shrugs, because she doesn't _know_. She _can't_ know. "Maybe not, but I can sure as hell try to save what's left of it."

She goes quiet, thinking, and then says, "Sometimes you have to roll the hard six."

He laughs. "Yeah."

Kara shifts closer, puts her head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her hair.

They stay that way until Sam comes out to get them, reminding Dean that even here, it's not safe.

*

They stay at Bobby's for nearly a week, resting up, replenishing their supplies, and sharing news from the other settlements.

The morning of the seventh day is cold and cloudy, the sullen sky spitting down sluggish rain, and the wind from the east has the taint of sulfur to it. Dean packs the trunk of the car Bobby's fixed up for them--a rebuilt Ford Focus that runs on biodiesel, and whatever kind of grease they can find to put in her tank. Dean is skeptical but willing to test it out.

He's with the Impala when Kara finds him. He opens his mouth to say that goodbyes aren't his thing, and she says, "You hear that?"

Dean pauses and listens, but doesn't hear anything out of the ordinary. Doesn't mean he's not missing something. "No. What do you hear, Kara?"

She smiles and her eyes are bright. "Nothing but the rain, Dean." She kisses him before he can tell her she's nuts, her tongue hot and sweet in his mouth.

"We'll be back," he tells her when she pulls away, puts a hand on the soft skin of her cheek, runs his thumb over her saliva-slick lips. "We've been turning up on Bobby's front porch for almost thirty years, whether he wants us or not. It'll take a little more than the end of the world to stop us."

She laughs, more sweet than bitter, and says, "See you soon."

He kisses her again, soft this time, all lip and no tongue, the closest he can get to saying goodbye.

They walk together to where Sam is waiting beside the boxy-looking hatchback, and then he and Sam get into the car and drive away. He doesn't look back.

He and Sam still have work to do, and that's always been enough.

end

~*~


End file.
